Canines in the feeding trough

As well-traveled, richly experienced, and psychologically perspicacious as Pretty Lady may be, there is still one thing she hasn't figured out. Perhaps the gentlemen among her readership can enlighten her, although she suspects that few of them are the type which perplex her. Feel free to offer an opinion; ladies too.

Why, then, are the most openly non-monagamous, self-righteously philandering, womanizing rat-bastards of the male species the ones who throw the MOST petulant jealous tantrums?

Pretty Lady can't figure it out. She was thinking, today, of her old friend the Cuban Expressionist. (Poor Cuban painters. Pretty Lady knew most of the representative ones in New York at one point, and none of them seemed to have realized that Abstract Expressionism was over, say, fifty years ago.) She was pondering again the sad fact that he never did get the bee out of his bonnet, and she has no idea where he is today because of it.

The Cuban Expressionist was the closest thing Pretty Lady has ever known to a professional gigolo. He charmed his way out of Cuba, across Russia, France and Mexico, scattering illegitimate offspring like manna. Drifting along behind him was his common-law spouse, a little engineer named Maria, adoring the ground upon which he tread. He was careful to keep her mostly under wraps, leeching quietly off her steady income while he played the role of unattached swashbuckler in public.

Pretty Lady met him when he fetched up against a friend of hers in Mexico. She avoided him at first, because his accent made her nervous; he talked too fast and swallowed all his consonants. Also, Pretty Lady's friend was a domineering and territorial personality. It was wise not to get in her way.

However, New York City is the Holy Grail for any serious artist, and eventually both Pretty Lady and the Cuban ended up there. The Cuban arrived about six months before she did, but it frankly did not occur to her to call him. When at last the mutual friend came to visit, and he discovered she'd been in town for three whole months, he was monstrously aggrieved.

"Why you no call me?" he demanded.

"I can't understand your accent," Pretty Lady replied, honestly. "It's worse over the telephone." (This is true. The prospect of having a conversation on the phone in a foreign language with a virtual stranger always makes Pretty Lady break out in a cold sweat. Much is communicated with facial expression and hand gesture; the naked phone is a formidable instrument.)

"Okay," said the Cuban, and proceeded to pester her forthwith.

Those were interesting days. The economy was beyond dreadful, and both Pretty Lady and the Cuban were in the position of having to cadge odd jobs at every turn. The Cuban was both a spiritually generous individual, and had no sense of shame; he dragged Pretty Lady all over town, in pursuit of any tenuous opportunity to sell a painting or earn a buck. The 'friends' he introduced her to were all ladies of semi-elevated social status, who all squealed "Mario!" and looked narrowly at Pretty Lady as though she were an adder in the thicket. Pretty Lady was careful to present a buddy-like and non-territorial aspect.

Eventually, Pretty Lady and the Cuban developed the notion of starting a small joint enterprise, selling original erotic artwork on the sidewalk in Soho. Pretty Lady provided transportation, the Cuban supplied carpentry and engineering, and both of them spent their days drawing like fiends. On weekends, they met on the pavement before dawn to stake out territory, then took turns defrosting in the café until the tourists arrived, around eleven.

Watching the Cuban in action was an ever-enlightening experience. He flowed with a steady stream of patter that, by rights, ought to have got him arrested, but instead brought him an onslaught of business. "Hey lady, lady, lady, come buy. Oooo, erotica, yes? La, la, hey lady." And the ladies would giggle and come over for a look.

Now, whenever engaging upon a career of seduction, it is paramount to understand one thing; affection is mandatory. Nothing is ever accomplished, nothing is ever communicated, without a genuine appreciation for the object of one's predations. Mario appreciated women, all women. The women sensed this, and responded to it. The trouble was, once they realized the appreciation was universal, they tended to get testy.

Mario told me that once, when he had an opening in Mexico City, he invited all five of his girlfriends, because he didn't want any of them to hear about it later and get their feelings hurt. When one of them noticed just how many other women were casually grinding up against him as they passed, however, she got jealous and threw a glass of red wine all over the exhibit. "It was my mistake," he said. "I shouldn't have invited them."

Pretty Lady, meanwhile, was largely immune to Mario's coarser charms. This was partly due to the fact of having recently emerged from a 'relationship' with one of Mexico's more notorious operators, and not wanting to go through that ever again. Also, her good friend was a member of Mario's harem, and there is a strict code of non-interference with previously established social groupings, among honorable Latino womanizers. Also, Mario's common-law spouse rather attached herself. It would have taken a spawn of Satan to knowingly make that lady's life more miserable than it was already.

Also, good heavens. By virtue of her 'buddy' status, Pretty Lady was privy to more of the sordid details of Mario's life than anybody. This man was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a Good Catch. He was entertaining, darling, sweet, adorable. But gracious. Pretty Lady would have to be a much bigger fool than she is. She was about ready to settle down, and not with anyone remotely resembling Mario. She believed that Mario understood this implicitly.

But then she met the Angry Atheist.

Mario was invited to the fateful weekend upstate, which shifted everything. It was quite a houseparty, jammed with bohemian artist types, and fraught with subtext. Surprisingly, the common-law spouse decided to come, and was miserable. Mario flirted outrageously with every female on the property, except his spouse. This was duly noted and excoriated by present company. It was to Mario's extreme detriment that he had yet to understand the niceties of American Puritan moral heritage. In all of his previous countries of residence, such behavior is noted as a sign of virility and elevated social class; in America it is frowned upon.

Pretty Lady, meanwhile, was stalking the man who seemed, at the time, to be her dream come true. (More fool she.) She challenged the Angry Atheist to a left-handed arm-wrestling match. Not intending to humiliate him; she is wiser than that. But Pretty Lady can give a fellow a run for his money, with her left hand.

The arm-wrestling match turned out to be one of the highlights of Thanksgiving weekend. This being a bohemian houseparty, there was more than one video camera in circulation. All of them emerged, once Pretty Lady got the Atheist in an arm lock and he realized his victory was by no means assured. People were circling; people were shouting. When Pretty Lady finally conceded defeat, the Angry Atheist was hurting.

"Woman!" he exclaimed.

Mario was Not Happy.

Pretty Lady did not think to wonder, at the time, why Mario was suddenly swarming all over her, asking for a backrub. Nor did she particularly think about it when he stole someone's camera and trained it on her for much too long a time, when she got dreamy and started spinning to some excellent trance music. But she was a bit perturbed when, for no apparent reason, the Angry Atheist suddenly stormed off to his private room and didn't come out for the rest of the weekend. She thought things were going so well.

On the way home, after Mario and a subdued spouse were dropped off in West New York, Pretty Lady's best friend offered an observation. "Mario sure was running interference, there."

Hum.

After about two months' more of stop-and-go, Pretty Lady and the Atheist, were, regrettably, an established item. When she called Mario to give him the news, buddy-to-buddy, he sounded a little chokey. She joshed him about it. "Jealous? You? Come on. Get over it." Really, she thought he was joking.

Evidently not. The lady at the Cuban center (Mario only screwed her once; it was brief and he didn't even kiss her, she complained) reported that Mario was in a state of the sulks. "Pretty Lady has a boyfriend," he announced, gratuitously. Pretty Lady still figured he'd get over it. After all, sex is sex; Mario had sex with everybody. What matters one lady more or less? And the friendship was the same as ever.

Only not. Not by Pretty Lady's choice, of course; when she opened a little gallery in the Atheist's building, naturally she offered Mario a show. He accepted with a minimal amount of grace, and tried her patience sorely with his uncharacteristic reticence and irresponsibility. By the time his show came down, Pretty Lady honestly didn't care if she never saw him again.

Many months later, she ran into him downtown. "Maria had a baby," he reported, gloomily. "Es un poco dificil, la vida." Hmph. As if he'd had nothing to do with it. Pretty Lady applauded Maria's resourcefulness, particularly in getting her mother imported from Cuba and installed in their basement apartment. Mario, pushed to the wall, dumped her at last and moved out. Pretty Lady's friend reported that he'd been through a depression and lost a lot of weight, but seemed to be coming out of it.

So, insightful gentlemen all, what is this about? Pretty Lady is not so narcissistic that she thinks it was Love. She knew a passel of the Cuban's mistresses, and a lot of them are just as awesome as she; he left them all without a trace of regret. She doesn't think it was Ego, completely--any man who hits on every woman he meets, must get turned down more often than not. Another Cuban artist thought it might be 'celos de cariño,' jealousy of friendship; this could be the case, but why, then, would he eradicate the friendship?

Pretty Lady confesses herself stumped.